First Impressions Aren't Everything
by Hotshot
Summary: No matter how long you know a person your first impression of them always stands out in your mind. Woudn't we all be surprised how badly Mark and Roger's first impressions were of each other and what they led to. will be slash eventually
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Guess what, RENT doesn't belong to me. However, if you've read and fiction on this site before I'm sure you already knew that. I do, however, have an amazing respect for Jonathan Larson's work, and as an aspiring writer, hope to accomplish something that he would approve of in this story.

First Impressions Aren't Everything

Chapter 1

Hotshot

---

It didn't take long for Mark to realize that New York was nothing like Providence. While nights in his Providence were reasonably calm and peaceful, if not a little trouble-inspiring, New York's nights were the same as its days- miserable and bitter. Dark and cold due to pouring rain, tonight was by far the worse night Mark had experienced since escaping to New York around Thanksgiving.

He flipped up the collar of his jacket in an attempt to protect more of his neck from the rain, and struggled through the crowd that had maintained its size if not grown since he had gone out to film around noon. It seemed, as usual, that the entire flow of traffic was against him, leading him to mutter darkly about how the world was against him. The tides of people tapered out as Mark passed the club. There was a long line of waiting to get in, although the doors didn't open for another hour. CBGB's popularity did not surprise Mark in the least; the college kids waiting to get in simply reminded Mark of the students back at Brown. As he walked along the roped-off line, people paid him no mind. However, when the bouncer pulled aside the rope to let him in loud protests began. Mark shoved his hands into his pockets and ducked his head, letting their yelling echo with him into the building.

Unlike everyone waiting on the line outside, Mark didn't want to be at CBGB's. He'd only been to actual clubs a few times during his first two years at Brown and it didn't take long for him to figure out that it wasn't his scene. As if dropping out of Brown had not been enough for his parents to be disappointed in, he had yet to reveal where he was working to them. However, he was happy enough with it. He worked five nights a week and had the other two complete days to work on his documentary or two screenplays he had planned.

Mark passed quickly through the club, exchanging only brief nods of acknowledgement as he went, and soon found himself in the back room. He walked along the shelves picking out the necessary pieces of equipment before lugging the loaded camera out to his favorite vantage point. Mark's job was simple. He taped the bands that performed at CBGB's so that they had something to send out to record companies of other prospective employers. The club charged a decent fee for his work, and Mark received only a cut of said fee. The amount was barely enough to pay the quarter of the rent he owed each month, buy clothing suitable for the weather, keep his camera working and loaded with film, and, if he was lucky, buy some Ramen or chips. Even if the bands were mostly horrible wannabe rock stars, it put money on the table. As he set up the camera on the tripod one of the manager's assistants approached him.

"Mark," he greeted.

"Hey Joe." Mark swiveled the camera around to face the stage where two men were setting up a drum set while the others worked on the electrical wiring of the amps and microphones. "Who's up tonight?"

Joe handed over a set list and a poster which had advertised the band playing that night. "There's four guys: drummer, Steven Curtis; bassist, Hunter Anderson; guitarist, Michael Serani; and lead guitarist and singer, Roger Davis. They have a decent following around New York, played at the Pyramid Club last weekend."

"Got a name?" Mark asked. He certainly had never seen them before.

"The Well Hungarians." Mark couldn't prevent a loud laugh from escaping as he loaded up the film. He looked up when he realized Joe was not laughing with him. The man's face was graced with a frown. Obviously he hadn't understood the joke in the band's name. Mark quickly stifled his chuckles and coughed uncomfortably. At least this band had a sense of humor.

"Anything special?" he asked.

"Your filming is good, Mark," the older man allowed, "Michael wrote a few solos in on the set list that he thinks should make it to the tape. Other than that, just do what you've been doing." Mark just nodded as the older man turned and walked away. Mark had always been mature in the sense that he could talk to and understand those older then him, but with his boss missing such obvious _and bad _joke in the band's name, he was reminded just how much younger than these people he was.

In a few short minutes, the camera was prepped to begin filming and Mark peeled off his jacket, dropping it onto a chair, and abandoning his post as the doors opened. He reached the bar before the flood of people and grabbed a bottle of water. The place was full, and very loud, in no time, and a few minutes before the band was scheduled to go on Mark returned to his position behind the camera. He took a few sweeping shots of the enthusiastic crowd as he waited. Finally, Daniel, the current manager of CBGB's, took the stage. He began his usual spiel.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my honor to introduce…" before telling them a little bit about the band. As he spoke, the band members were trickling out onstage behind him; first the drummer, and then the bassist and first guitarist. Daniel ended his introduction with a sweeping arm gesture, as always, and made his way quickly offstage. The drummer immediately set a quick tempo for the opening song, letting loose on the drum set like a small child in a music shop. Mark could not help but wince; he was going to have a headache by the end of the night.

The bassist leaned forward and began to speak into the microphone in front of him. "Thank you for that wonderful introduction. How are you tonight CBGB's? You're kind of quiet. I don't know if y'all are ready to experience the Well Hungarians. Can I hear you scream?" An ear-splitting roar immediately filled the room. The bassist laughed, "Alright, that's what we like to hear. Get your ass onstage Roger, they're ready." He backed away from the mic and began strumming his instrument, his eyes shifting over to one of the wings.

As the roaring of he crowd swelled again this Roger character glided onstage, guitar in hand, and a broad smirk on his face.

"Fuck," Mark whispered, immediately zooming in on the figure. The boy was gorgeous. His hair was dark and short, though the tips were bleached a bright blonde that gleamed gold under the stage lights. His eyes shone, and a wide smile graced his rough face.

Mark soon learned that he had an amazing voice as well, raw and raspy. Mark quickly zoomed back out as The Well Hungarians launched into the chorus of their first song, capturing the entire band once again. He knew he couldn't let this affect his filming. It wasn't that he had never found one of the members of the numerous bands he'd filmed attractive before, but the attraction was never as intensely as this.

Mark didn't believe in love at first sight. He laughed off his friends' belief in it; that any attractive piece of ass that walked by was 'the one.' It was just a stupid cliché. However, as cliché as it was, Mark found himself completely taken with this singer. There was something about his looks, the certain, almost arrogant way he held himself onstage, and the raw emotion in that voice. Whatever it was, he couldn't shake off the feeling as he'd done with all the other good-looking band members he had filmed for.

As Roger's voice faded and the second guitarist sped up his playing Mark zoomed in; this was one of the solo's they'd requested be shot. He was distracted to be sure, but not enough that he could ignore his job. Mark relaxed behind the camera and listened as Roger sang. The band was serious, he could tell that much. They played better and had better lyrics than most of the other bands he'd taped recently. This added up to a much more enjoyable experience of filming-- all the better if Mark didn't have to sit through a badly-organized set with a bunch of kids that didn't know the meaning of a key. Maybe The Well Hungarians didn't quite fit the mold of the typical struggling New York City band, but Mark had been in New York long enough to know that this was a good thing.

Mark taped the entire set, his hands and the camera moving on something close to autopilot while he stared at the bright-eyed singer. Once their set had finished, they walked casually offstage amid roaring applause. Roger was the last to leave, soaking up every second of attention the audience granted him. Mark captured a few more shots of the pulsating audience before he grabbed his equipment and headed toward the back of the club. Joe let him in through the door that led to storage, offices, and the rooms where the bands relaxed after shows.

"They're performing again tomorrow and Saturday," he told Mark. "How much editing do you need to do on the tape? I know you're not technically working tomorrow or-"

Mark cut him off. "I'll come in. I'm out of film for the month, so it's not as if I have much else to do."

Joe clapped him on the shoulder, "That's a good man, Mark."

Mark faked a smile and made his way back to storage, carefully storing away the camera equipment and putting the film he'd just shot into a canister, marking it 'Well Hungarians at CBGB's'. It hadn't really been a lie. Mark had a little over an hour's worth of film left, which wouldn't last the rest of the month. Especially since he already had something in mind to use the remaining film on.

---

Early the next afternoon, Mark made his way through the traffic and ducked into the nearly empty club. He knew exactly what cuts needed to be made and what he wanted to edit into The Well Hungarians' show. The shots of the crowd needed to be duplicated and added in, but other than that there was not much editing to be done. He'd shot the entire concert, and it would be impractical to cut any of the songs without the band's input; he didn't know them and had no idea what kind of image they wanted to portray. Although, if the lead singer was any indication…

Mark berated himself for his thoughts about Roger. He'd tried to force his mind to turn away from the singer as he laid down to sleep the night before. Nothing had worked. And now, as he worked through the film from the previous night's concert, he shivered at hearing and seeing Roger again. Even on film, you could see how much of himself Roger put into his performance.

Shaking his head in an attempt to clear his mind, Mark locked the door to Joe's office and set to work cutting and reworking the film. When Joe actually showed up he usually spent most of his time doing day-work at the bar or making sure things were well set up onstage, leaving the small room free for Mark to edit his films in. He took his time, already knowing how he wanted the final version to look, and finished by early evening, still hours before the show. Leaving the tape on Joe's desk, he headed out of the club abd down the street to a small diner he frequented.

A cup of tea and three hours later found Mark walking back to the club. As usual, the bouncers let him in with no questions. Mark was able to walk right up to the place where he had taped the night before without as much as a suspicious look. No one would notice him, and those who did would only assume he was there for work.

"I can't believe this. I can't _believe_ I'm doing this," he muttered, setting up his own camera as Daniel again introduced the band. It was beyond stupid, to use the last of his film on a band he should by all rights be sick of, after filming and editing last night's set. And yet here he was, getting attached to a beautiful boy he had yet to actually meet.

"Didn't you film this band last night?" Mark looked up sharply to find one of the older bouncers staring curiously at him.

"Missed some important shots," he covered quickly. "Joe wants me to catch them and the band wants some alternating shots." It was complete bullshit, of course, but the guy bought it and walked on.

Mark turned back to the stage just as the bassist was finishing up the same banter with the crowd as the previous evening. When Roger came onstage, he couldn't help but zoom in to get a better look. And after that, zooming back out seemed out of the question. The musician looked even better tonight. Kohl lined his eyes, causing the blue-green to stand out, and his hair had been gelled and spiked to the best of Roger's ability, despite its shortness. Tonight, he was wearing a pair of obscenely tight plaid pants and a black shirt with the sleeves cut off, showing off his several tattoos and well-toned arms.

Roger's voice continued to give him chills, and the whole night, Mark found himself keeping his camera trained on The Well Hungarians' lead singer. The man truly had a presence that kept the fans pumped- jumping around the stage with more energy than Mark thought it possible to possess. At the end of the night, Mark was probably as sad as the fans, if not more so, to see the band leave the stage. As Roger turned to leave he gave the crowd a parting grin, his head turning in just the right direction for Mark's camera to catch it. The smile was genuine, wider and warmer than the fake stage smile he'd been giving the crowd all night. He was genuinely pleased with his performance. Mark laughed at himself as the film cut. How could he even guess what this wannabe rock star was thinking when he had never even met the guy?

He turned off his camera and stowed it in his bag before heading for the door, pushing through the stream of people heading in the same direction.

"Mark!" a voice called from behind him. "Mark! Hold on!" Mark spun on his heel, coming face to face with Joe. His thoughts immediately went to the rule that there was no filming allowed in CBGB's, except with the expressed permission of the club's owner.

"Hey Joe."

"Hey, I got the Hungarians' footage. It was great man; what are you still doing here?"

"I liked the show. Thought I'd stay and watch it tonight."

Joe raised his eyebrows in surprise, but didn't comment other than a short, "Well, I hope you really like it, then. I know tomorrow's your day off, but I really need you to come in and film the opening act. They go on at eight-thirty." He walked away without giving Mark time to answer.

"Sure," Mark muttered, mostly to himself, turning, and making his was quickly out of the club. When he reached home he ignored his roommates, as usual, and put the reel in an empty container, labeling it 'Well Hungarians at CBGB's' before sticking it in his closet with a few others. Now that it was all done he couldn't help but wonder why he had wasted so much film on a guy he would probably never see again after tomorrow.

"Fuck," he muttered, throwing a pillow across the dilapidated mattress he had for a bed.

---

When Mark reached the club the next evening he was tired, and not really in the mood to shoot. But it was a paycheck, a paycheck that would pay the rent, as well as buy him more film. Speaking of film, the storage room put Mark in an even worse mood, as there didn't appear to be any film left. His day was certainly not improving.

He walked down the hall, camera in tow, and opened the door to Joe's office without knocking, stopping dead in his tracks once he saw the room's occupants. The four members of The Well Hungarians were squished on the small couch Joe had, while Joe sat at his desk. The five of them were watching the final song of the set from Mark's tape. Joe looked up and caught sight of Mark before he could back out of the room.

"Mark! Come in!" he waved at the young man.

Mark stepped into the room just as the film went black. It wasn't that he minded meeting the musicians; he just hated being around when people looked at, watched, or read his work. "Uhh… there's no film in the storage room. You have some extra in here, right?"

"Yeah, got a few reels in my desk. Come here for a minute, Mark. These guys were very impressed with your work. Gentlemen, this is Mark Cohen, our videographer. He shot and edited the film you just watched."

They were all staring at him, and Mark was certain his cheeks were tinted pink by now. Though it was good. The guitarist, bassist and drummer looked impressed, and they'd been smiling when the film ended. However, Roger was frowning. He was the first to speak.

"You hired a sixteen-year-old to shoot videos of bands in your club? No wonder this tape looks so cheap. A monkey could do the job he did."

If Mark hadn't been blushing before, he was certain that he was redder than a tomato now. He ducked his head a bit.

"Oh shut up, Davis," the bassist snapped. "You're just pissed because you're not the sole focus of the damn movie. Mark, good to meet you man. I'm Hunter. The film was great, just what we need."

The other two echoed Hunter's sentiments, but Mark couldn't help but feel a little let down. But then again, if Roger had seen the other tape Mark had made….. The very thought made Mark blush even more profusely. He muttered a quiet thanks, complimented the band on their stage presence, got his film reels from Joe and left the room as quickly as possible.

The opening act this night was absolutely horrible in comparison to The Well Hungarians, but Mark suffered through it. As soon as the band left the stage, he rushed to the storage room to look up his equipment, and then headed for the door.

"Mark!" For all that people were yelling his name this week, Mark was getting more than a little sick of hearing it. Reluctantly he turned around, only to be grabbed into a hug by a familiar dark figure. "Mark, how are you? What the hell are you doing here?" Standing in front of him was Benny Coffin, Mark's roommate his sophomore year of college, and two years his senior. Mark couldn't help but note wryly that his friend was dressed more like a normal person than he had throughout most of school.

"Benny, hey," Mark greeted, smiling despite the pounding headache the band had left. It was good to see a familiar face after the week he'd had.

"What are you doing in the city? Thanksgiving break?" Mark shook his head.

"I dropped out, moved to the city."

Benny looked mildly shocked. Mark had always been so bright, and so on track, but he couldn't say that he was completely surprised; Mark's first, and only, love had always been his movies.

"And decided to hit the clubs every night?" Benny cocked his head, smirking. He knew Mark hated this scene.

Mark laughed. "I work here. What about you? Why are you here?" Benny was even less of a clubgoer than Mark.

"One of my roommates is performing with his band." He nodded toward the stage where the opening act was attempting to sell CDs and t-shirts. "Come on," Benny poked Mark in the ribs, "Let's get out of here. I'll bet you've had nothing but a cup of tea today. Let me buy you dinner." Mark had never been one to ask for handouts, but he was not about to turn down a free meal when his finances were going to be pretty strapped for the month. So he let Benny drag him to a cheap burger joint down the street and obligingly ordered food and beer. Mark had barely taken two bites of his burger when Benny set his down on his plate and looked dead at Mark.

"So tell me everything." Mark bit his lip and told Benny everything. He told him of the unfulfilling semester at Brown and the realization that he couldn't live with forcing himself through it anymore. He told him about the move to New York and the shitty roommates he had. He told him about the job at CBGB's that didn't pay him nearly enough, but kept a roof over his head, clothes on his back, and, on occasion, food in his stomach. He left out the part about his crush on the Well Hungarians front man though, and instead focused on the fact that he and his father weren't exactly speaking at the moment.

Benny listened patiently. He ate his dinner without interrupting Mark, and allowed for the long silences while Mark inhaled his food. When they were both finished, he sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, we'd better go pack your stuff then." "

"What?" Mark suddenly felt very, very confused.

"I've _met_ your mother. And if I was the one that had to tell her the conditions in which her son is living, I think she might find a way to murder me with her feather-duster. _I_ don't want to be _that person_, Mark. Now, the conditions in my place aren't much better, and the neighborhood isn't the greatest, but it's a step up from where you are now. My roommates are pretty easy to get along with. Sure, it might get a bit cramped on occasion, but we always manage."

"I don't know about this, Benny-"

"Plus, you'll be staying with friends, and you'll get to know the other guys quick enough. They're cool. Have I ever steered you wrong before?"

"No, but-"

"Don't make me call your mother, Mark." With most that was an idle threat, but everyone who had met Mrs. Cohen knew better.

Mark sighed, "All right." It wasn't that he minded the invitation, he just hated giving in so easily.

"Let's go get your stuff then." Benny threw a few bills down on the table and stood up, pulling on his coat. Mark followed, and once they were outside, took the lead, showing Benny the way to his now-former apartment.

---

The loft was everything Benny had promised. It was a mess, but what else could be expected when it was home to three men? It wasn't exactly in the greatest condition, but in Mark's mind this only added to the bohemian paradise Mark had grown to love since he left Brown. There were interesting people.

This fact was attested to by the only other inhabitant of the loft when they arrived. He was a black man, both older and taller than Benny, and was wearing a trench coat and a white skull cap. Despite the late hour, he was bent over a table cluttered by a stack of papers, red pen in hand. In his other hand he held a perfectly rolled joint, half smoked. He glanced up as they entered, pausing when he caught sight if Mark.

"Who's your friend?" he asked. Benny dropped into a nearby chair, motioning for Mark to do the same after depositing his bags on the floor. He motioned with his arms as he made the introductions.

"Mark Cohen, I would like you to meet Thomas Collins. Collins, this is Mark, the guy at CBGB's that I went off with."

"You know you're supposed to end up at their apartment, right?" Collins asked with a smirk, "Not bring them home."

"No, Collins, that's your job," Benny grinned at the look of shock on Mark's face.

"Touché."

"Mark was my roommate my last two years at Brown. He just dropped out and moved to the city, was living in a commune down on west."

Collins finally held out a hand in Mark's direction. "Good to meet you, man."

Mark shook Collins' hand without hesitation. "You always do your grading high?" Collins laughed again, his eyes sparkling.

"I teach philosophy. These essays are on right and wrong, and there are only so many papers telling me which students are Democrats and which are Republicans that I can take." He held the joint out to Mark, who took a long, slow drag before passing it back.

"I hope he can hold his liquor as well as he can smoke," Collins said to Benny. Mark grinned.

"How was the show?" Benny asked.

"How are all his shows?" Collins shot back. "They did well. He sounded a little pissed off." Mark bit back a laugh. His new roommates were definitely talking about the opening act. "Walked off with a leggy blonde after the show though, so I don't expect we'll see much of him before the wee hours of the morning."

"Guess not," Benny agreed, standing up. "C'mon Mark. There's an extra mattress in my room you can sleep on tonight. At least come drop your stuff in my room before I go to bed." Mark obediently followed Benny but returned to the main room of the loft after Benny got into bed. Collins passed a new joint without even looking at him.

Mark took a drag. "You're not mad that Benny just brought me home without saying anything to you first, are you?"

"Nah." Collins shook his head. "That's how we get all our roommates. That's how Benny got here, actually. They get dragged in, and leave when they find something better. It's a never ending cycle. No one really minds."

"Well, what about your other roommate. Will he-"

"He'll be cool with it. Don't worry."

"Are you sure?" Mark was beginning to realize that this new living situation was pure trial and error- it was going to be either an immeasurable improvement from his last or absolute hell.

"Mark." Collins chuckled and grinned lopsidedly at him, "I think I'm really going to like you once I get to know you, but please, learn to relax." He snatched the joint back. Mark nodded, standing up.

"Good night, Collins."

"Night, Mark."

The mattress on Benny's floor was hard and lumpy, but the haze from the pot helped him drift off to sleep with more ease than he had in weeks.

---

When Mark woke the next morning the room was bright, suggesting it was probably close to midday. Mark sat up to find Benny still fast asleep in bed. Same old Benny, Mark chuckled to himself, reminded of their dorm room.He grinned to himself and stood, running a hand through his sleep-flattened hair before going to search for the bathroom. Mark could hear someone moving around out in the main room. He guessed it was Collins in the living room but a quick once-over quickly determined that it was the third roommate. The guy was white; shorter than Collins, and lacking the philosopher's imposing size.

Mark took in the man sitting on the dilapidated couch through an artist's perspective as he walked towards his new roommate. He had dark hair with the tips bleached, which was the look of every punk-rock king these days. There was a guitar across his lap cradled against his torso as he plucked at the strings.

Or- Mark corrected himself mentally, _was_ plucking at the strings. As the man heard Mark approach, his fingers stilled and he looked up. Mark stopped dead in his tracks as green eyes met his. There was no way he could forget those eyes, the same one's which had glared so harshly at him the afternoon before.

One word was on the tip of his tongue. "Shit," he mumbled.

A very pissed-off Roger Davis shot to his feet roaring, "Benny!"

--

A/N: It's finally up! Thank goodness. The idea behind this story ended my five or six month spell of writer's block and I really don't think I have seen anything quite like it as of yet. I would love to thank human(underscore)toaster from lj for being an amazing beta. I'm already halfway through chapter two so it should be up soon, hopefully before I go back to school the weekend after this.

So, leave me some feedback. Good or bad, I don't care. Tell me what you think.

Hotshot


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Not mine. I mean, come on, if I owned these lovely characters do you really think I would be sitting around writing this.

First Impressions Aren't Everything

Chapter 2

Hotshot

Roger's yell triggered a chain reaction of noise in the loft. The sound of movement in the other rooms was evident and just as the echoes were fading both Benny and Collins appeared in the doorways to their respective rooms.

Mark himself had not moved a muscle since recognizing Roger. He remained frozen, standing in the middle of the room.

Roger also seemed frozen, and completely oblivious to the appearance of his roommates, staring only at Mark with blazing eyes and a set jaw.

"Christ Rog." Collins mumbled, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes as he surveyed the scene in front of him. "I told you when you came in last night that Benny's roommate from Brown had moved in. What the hell is the matter with you?"

"**_Him!?"_** Roger's voice cracked from overuse in the past three days. "_He_ is Benny's old roommate? _He_ cannot stay here!"

"You don't even know him Roger," Benny snapped. He had always been irritable in the morning as Mark remembered.

"I know him well enough to know he doesn't appreciate talent and originality."

"The fuck are you talking about?" Now Benny was just as confused. Collins also looked slightly puzzled.

"This punk took the tape of the Well Hungarians on Thursday when we performed at CBGB's. I finally got to see it today. There are two solo shots of me in the entire thing, when I'm coming onstage and when I'm leaving. _Two_ Benny. _Two_ in an entire hour and a half."

Benny glanced quickly at Mark before staring back at Roger.

"You have got to be kidding me." He muttered, grinding the palm of his hand against his eyes.

"I was doing my job," Mark snapped, finally snapping out of his trance. "I shot what your bassist told me to, and what CBGB's has told me record companies look for. Your bassist even gave me a list. I'm sorry if he didn't include 'feed lead singer's ego' on it but it's not my fault you're not the focus of the video."

As Roger stood and began advancing on Mark the pale boy immediately realized he would have to keep his inner sarcasm and quick replies in check in this place; Roger was certainly much larger than he was.

He took a quick step back as Roger got closer and Collins put himself between the two of them, putting a hand on Roger's chest to hold him off.

As much as Roger was larger than Mark, Collins was larger than Roger. He gently shoved the musician back into a sitting position on the couch.

"Fucking chill." He ordered.

Roger immediately began to protest, "Did you hear what he-"

Benny cut him off.

"Are you hearing yourself here, Roger? He's right. You're acting like it's all about you."

"_I_ am the soul of that band."

"Sure you are," Benny sounded bored.

Silence settled over the loft again and at the moment it was becoming uncomfortable Roger broke it with a bitter, "He can't stay here."

"How much did you pay for rent at your old place Mark?" Benny asked.

"Uhh… Two hundred."

"I need one twenty-five a month from you. There Roger, not only is he staying with us, but he is paying more rent than you are."

"Hey, I have rent money this month!" Roger yelled.

"Yeah, well he has a steady job."

"Yeah," Roger scoffed, "A wannabe filmmaker who tapes rock bands. What a sellout."

Mark kept his mouth shut. The insult stung, though he knew there was the smallest bit of truth in it. He clenched his jaw.

Though it was only the tiniest motion Roger noticed, and inwardly he grinned. That was all he needed. He had a way to dig at Mark now, a way to make him miserable.

"He's staying." It was Collins, not Benny, who spoke.

It seemed that his word was final as Roger snapped, "Fine." He grabbed his guitar and returned to what Mark assumed was his room, slamming the door behind him.

"I'm going back to bed." Benny's door shut.

"Roger's a good guy, just give him a few days," Collins said quietly. He pointed toward another door. "Bathroom's that way. I'm going to make some coffee."

- - -

The loft felt more like home than any place Mark had ever lived before. Certainly it felt more comfortable than Mark's previous apartment and his dorm room before that. Anything was better than living back in Scarsdale with his parents.

Living with Benny was just like it had been in college. When he was there he was a good guy. He joked around with Mark and brought up stories from the two years they had spent together. There had certainly been some good times. However, the memories also reminded him of why he'd left Brown. Hell, Benny reminded him of why he'd left Brown. Benny was the perfect corporate suit. He'd dumped any dreams he'd had upon graduation and thrown himself into the world of real estate and money making.

Collins was very possibly the most amazing human being Mark had ever met. He was smarter, and a hell of a lot younger, than any professor Mark had ever had. He seemed to know something about everything, and if not he was perfectly capable of bullshitting his way out of the problem. He was responsible and always seemed to know exactly what was going on. Yet, at the same time, he always had a supply of pot or alcohol and within the first month that Mark lived in the loft he was arrested for streaking through the Parthenon to protest one presidential act or another. He was the one who brought Mark out of his shell, the one who engaged him, and made him think.

And then there was Roger. Like the soggy, misshapen piece to an otherwise complete puzzle he was there to make everything just slightly uncomfortable. Contrary to the promise which both Benny and Collins had made to Mark, Roger never lightened up. When the four of them were all around the loft he made sure to do anything that would make Mark uncomfortable or leave him out. He brought up experiences from before Mark moved in, effectively cutting him off from the conversation.

He made jabs at the job Mark continued to suffer through and as soon as there were copies made of the Well Hungarians' tape the original film reel was tossed in Mark's direction by the singer with a simple muttering of, 'I never want to see this again' and as with the others, it joined the reels in Mark's crate.

Mark woke up as ice-cold water hit his face and chest. He nearly fell of the couch in his effort to sit up. A paper cup whizzed past his head to land on the floor. He looked to the left to find Roger smirking and shaking his head as he began working toward the door.

"The fuck?" he asked.

"Hey, the couch is public space," he slung his guitar case over his shoulder and shoved the loft door aside.

Mark growled and wiped the liquid from his face. He'd fallen asleep on the couch again. He had been exiled from Benny's room since a few weeks ago. Benny had met a girl while trying to sell an apartment to a friend of hers on the Upper East Side.

Sure, he could have moved that mattress into Collins' room. Oh yes, that would have been a brilliant idea. Collins brought home more 'boy toys' as Benny called them, than Roger and the Well Hungarians had gigs, and after their success at CBGB's they were getting offers from everywhere. It wasn't that Mark minded Collins' lifestyle he just preferred not to be in the room while the two men were moaning and rolling around in bed.

Benny had been crazy enough to suggest he move in with Roger at one point. That would have been worse than rooming with Collins. Roger had more girls and boys than he had unfinished songs, one or two followed him home every night.

So now the couch had become Mark's bed. As lumpy and uncomfortable as it was, it served its purpose and Mark slept four or five hours each night there.

He crossed the room and grabbed a questionably clean dish towel, wiping his face and neck as Collins stumbled from his room, clad only in a pair of boxers.

"What're you yelling about?" he yawned.

Mark took off his glasses and began drying them with the towel and without looking at Collins replied, "Roger decided that I needed a shower."

"Christ," he rolled his eyes.

"And he's going to 'get over it' when?"

"I'll talk to him," Collins nodded.

"Tom, are you coming back to bed?" A young man had appeared in the doorway to Collins' room. Although it was the middle of the day it was a Saturday, and Collins' Saturdays did not truly start until after four pm.

"Mark, I'll talk to him when he-"

Mark held up his hands in front of him, "Don't worry about it. I'll live. Just go back to bed." He glanced back at Collins' latest boy. "I'm gonna go film."

He wasn't sure if he or Collins made it to their prospective locations first, but Mark found himself out on the snowy sidewalk a few short moments later, camera in hand and jacket wrapped tightly around him.

There was no goal to his filming today, he merely wandered alphabet city, the place he'd become much more familiar with since moving in. As he searched for something to film he came upon a young man on a street corner, acoustic guitar in hand and case open on the ground.

Mark paused and lifted his camera, capturing the young man in the frame as he started a slow, sad song. There were no words, just a simple, calculated tune that seemed somewhat familiar. Some people passed by, throwing small coins into the guitar case. There was nothing larger than a lonely, crumpled dollar bill. Even after Mark had stopped filming and just stood watching the young man move on to another song he thought about Roger's favorite nickname for him.

Sellout. It was simple. Mark had sold out by getting his job, one that paid him to do what he loved; filming a subject he did not care about. Watching this boy crafting his own art reminded Mark that Roger was nowhere near innocent in the abundance of sellout artists.

He finally tore himself away from the scene and started down the street in the direction of CBGB's. He had footage to edit for another local band.

- - -

Roger was lounging across Steve's couch, waiting for practice to begin. He plucked at the strings of his beloved fender as Steve reentered the room, carrying with him a few cold beers. Without prompting he grabbed one, easily pulling the cap of with his keys.

Steve aimed a kick to the guitarist's arm as he handed off another bottle to Mike.

"You could have asked, brat."

"You would have given it to me anyway, so why bother?" Roger smirked.

"Actually that was for Hunter, you know, he and Mike who _on occasion_ bring their _own_ beer."

Roger rolled his eyes. "Well Hunter's the one who called this practice and yet," he motioned around the room, "he's the only one who isn't here."

The timing could not have been better. At that very moment the front door was flung open and in strolled Hunter, bass in one hand, with a wide grin crossing his features. He stopped dead in the middle of the room, looking around at them all.

"You're late," Roger told him, as though to drive home the point he had been making to the others.

"Yes, but with good reason." His bass dropped to the ground and he threw his hands into the air. "Next Friday, the Well Hungarians have a gig at the previously out of reach, club Voodoo."

Mike sat straight up in his chair, nearly choking on his beer. "No fucking way."

Hunter nodded enthusiastically.

"Liar," Roger accused, "Voodoo's been turning us down for the past two years. Why the hell would they let us play _now_."

A mischievous smirk made its way across Hunter's face. "Funny you should ask, Davis. The thing is Voodoo loved the tape that, what did you call him again…? Oh that's right, that untalented, sellout, minor with a video camera who filmed us at CBGB's."

Roger clenched his jaw.

"Yeah, they said the tape was really good, and _hearing_ the singing was enough. Next Friday. That means we need to practice, what are you guys just laying around for."

The other two began pushing themselves up off of the furniture, eager to get to their instruments. Roger slowly pushed himself into a sitting position, taking his time.

"C'mon Rog," Hunter nodded. "We need your energy on this one; after all, Voodoo was your dream place, not ours."

Roger gulped down half of his beer before meeting his bandmate's eyes, "Right."

- - -

The practice lasted well into the night, the four young men adding solos and rearranging music to better fit the verses. They even tried out one of Roger's newer songs, thankfully not a total flop. Mike headed out first, leaving the three of them. Steve and Hunter lived there so Roger was really just putting off his return to the loft a little more. He grabbed another beer from the fridge and climbed out onto the rickety fire escape.

As he stood there thinking he was brought back to the present by a rough slap to the back of his head. He turned to the side, catching sight of Hunter standing next to him before he turned back to the dark street.

"Get out of this mood Davis, talk to me."

"I just wanted us to be one of those bands who got gigs based on word of mouth and our music. It just sucks that it took a fucking video, that they had to see us to decide if they wanted us or not."

"Look, Roger, I know you're mad that you weren't in the video that much but they didn't-"

"That's not it!"

Hunter gave Roger a look. "You flipped out at the kid after we saw it. Listen, you may be the 'pretty-boy frontman' but we all work just as hard as you do. So, the video wasn't all about you, but hey, I most commonly hear us referred to as Roger Davis' band so I think you can live with it."

"He lives with me you know. Mark, I mean. The kid with the camera."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I guess he was Benny's roommate during college or something. I don't like him."

"Roger."

"No, really, I don't." Roger took a sip of his beer. "He walks around with that camera of his almost attached to his face. He's like me with my guitar. He goes out and films whenever he gets a day off but he never does anything with it. He never even looks at it again. But he spends hour upon hour at the club editing. It would be like me going and playing back up for some lounge singer, or signing a solo deal. He's fucking sold out before he even tries to do anything with it and it just pisses me off okay?"

"Yeah," Hunter prompted him to keep going.

"He's a kid. He just doesn't belong in New York. This city is going to swallow him whole. He should go back to Rhode Island or upstate, or wherever the hell he comes from and stop wasting everyone's time and energy. Everything he says, everything he does just…" He sighed, aggravated.

"He's a sellout. That's all there is to it. If he's going to sell out so early I don't trust him so far as I could throw him." He paused to take another sip of his beer, frowning once he found it was warm, "And I certainly don't like him."

There was no way of convincing Roger of something once his mind was made up. Unless Roger's opinion changed on its own it was not going to change due to someone else's words.

"Just let him try to get it together Roger. Don't chase him off before he has a chance to figure things out. If I remember correctly you had no idea what you were doing when we started up."

"Whatever." Roger had heard enough and climbed back in through the window, scooping his guitar up and heading out the door.

- - -

Collins lay almost lifelessly on the couch and Benny in a chair as Mark fiddled with the projector. He had promised to show them some of his film eventually and Collins had nearly pounced on him when he'd come in the door. The young man from the night before was gone, and Roger, it seemed, was still at practice.

Collins' excuse was that he needed a break from grading finals, and he had gotten Benny on board pretty easily. Benny, however, knew what he was in for. He had seen Mark's films before; he knew they were good.

A sheet had been stolen from Roger's room and hung against the wall. It lit up as Mark tuned the projector on. The whirring sound the machine made helped Mark to relax, the anxiety that usually accompanied publicly showing his work swelling less quickly through his body.

Just as an interior shot of the loft lit up the room the grating noise that accompanied the door reached Mark's ears. He and the other men turned to the door to watch Roger walk in, grunt his hello, and make his way into their makeshift kitchen to get himself something to drink. If he noted the film being viewed he ignored it completely.

Mark turned back to the projector He introduced the scene, giving the date and quickly zooming in on Collins who was, amid piles of papers and books, attempting to construct a final for his class. He looked up when Mark approached and held out the joint in his hand as an offering. The camera shook in Mark's response.

The camera and Mark's narration moved on to Benny who was walking in the door, looking over a newspaper. His only response to the camera was to bat it out of his way as he had so many times at school. As the narration called him 'the future yuppie scum' the Benny who was now sitting on the couch laughed and threw a pillow in Mark's direction.

Roger walked over to stand behind the couch with a cigarette as Mark's film turned to the final inhabitant of the loft.

"This is Roger," Mark's voice said quietly as the camera focused and zoomed in on the young man, his guitar cradled in his lap as he sang lyrics to himself. "The musician." He zoomed out again as the film cut to exterior shots.

Mark turned his head slightly to see Roger glaring at him, a scowl crossing his face. The few times he had caught Mark attempting to film him his responses had been nasty and harsh. Here he wasn't even doing anything important and he looked angry that Mark had caught him unaware he was being watched.

The film cut again, this time to a shot of a young man with a guitar, the footage Mark had shot that afternoon. He began playing his slow, sad song. Benny looked immediately bored with the film when Mark did not cut away from the guitarist, and Collins did not look particularly interested, but Roger's eyes were glued to the screen. Mark grinned, hoping it would be a small victory, helping him win Roger over.

As the film cut off and the room went dark Roger turned to Mark, a glare returning to his face.

"That was personal," he snarled. "You had no right to film that."

"Oh, give it a rest," Benny muttered under his breath.

"I wasn't talking to you Benny," Roger snapped.

"Sorry." Mark replied.

"Don't do it again." With that said he turned and strode back into the kitchen yelling over his shoulder, "and when you idiots are done messing around I'd better get my sheet back."

As Mark started to take apart the projector Benny mumbled something about Roger needing new roommates soon as he jumped to pull down the sheet. Collins gave Mark the briefest of nods before going after the disgruntled musician.

- - -

Roger jumped as a hand shoved him roughly into the table from behind.

"The fuck is the matter with you, boy?" Collins asked him. Collins only referred to Roger as boy when he was lecturing or angry at him so Roger knew he wasn't getting out of this easily.

"I don't know what you mean," he feigned innocence.

"Like hell you don't," Collins scoffed. "Why did you have to go and give Mark shit like that? He barely shows anyone his own stuff as it is and you're discouraging it. So what if he filmed you playing your precious guitar."

"Like I said, it was personal."

As Collins lifted his hands from his sides Roger barged on, knowing the professor meant to interrupt him, "It was. I haven't played that song for anyone, even the band, not a fucking soul yet."

"Roger, we hear you playing and singing around the loft all the time, it's no different than tha-"

"There's a difference!"

"No there's not."

"I don't want him filming me. Is that such a big deal? Plus he got in that dig about me being a sellout with the film of that kid playing his guitar on a street corner."

"What the hell are you talking about? That wasn't what he was doing."

"I don't like him Collins, okay?" Roger threw up his hands. "I'm sorry that you and Benny are so attached to him but I just don't like him. I'm sorry but that's not going to change."

He stalked across the room, ignoring Collins' continued shouts after him. He slammed the door to his room shut behind him. He knew the loft had amazing acoustics so he was fairly certain Benny and Mark had heard their entire discussion. To be frank, he really didn't give a shit. It was late, and they had a gig tomorrow. He may as well get some sleep.

There was a knock at his door an hour later after the talking and moving around in the loft had ceased.

"Go away Collins," Roger called, keeping his eyes focused on the ceiling.

Another knock echoed through the room.

Roger rolled his eyes. Persistent bastard.

"Fine. Come in."

The door creaked open but no one spoke.

Roger averted his eyes from the ceiling to find Mark standing in the doorway.

"What do you want?"

"I'm sorry about filming you, and I wanted you to know the footage of that kid wasn't supposed to be a jab at you."

"Though you did think of it before I said anything," Roger supplied, sitting up.

Mark shrugged, not moving farther into or out of the room.

"Anything else?"

"I don't want to live here if you're going to hate me-"

"Then you may as well start packing."

Mark trudged on, "Can we start over? Just forget about that stupid tape?"

"This isn't about the tape," Roger snapped. "Sure, I think the tape is a piece of shit, but I don't think you should be here, and I don't like you. Starting over isn't going to change that." He lay back down and resumed his careful surveying of the ceiling.

After a moment he looked back to find Mark still in the doorway.

"And you're still here why?"

"Collins threw all of the blankets in here earlier. I need one to keep from freezing tonight."

Roger was tempted to keep the blankets to himself and risk Mark getting sick but he knew Mark wasn't going to leave his doorway until he gave in.

He grabbed one of the bunched up blankets from the floor and threw it in Mark's direction. As Mark gathered the entire blanket into his arms and turned to leave Roger spoke once more.

"There, now get out of my room fag."

Mark stiffened. Roger highly doubted it was the first time he'd been called such, but the fact that Mark did not say anything in return made him raise an eyebrow and consider what this piece of knowledge could be used fir later.

This was going to make things very interesting.

A/N: Ahh… I haven't updated in over a month. I am so sorry! Well, apparently I lost my beta. I promise I will try to add more to this story in the next few weeks. I have a few other projects I'm working on and it's midterms time at school but I will try to write some more. Hopefully I can get one more chapter up before nanowrimo and possibly another during the month. If there are any volunteers for betas…

As for reviews. They are loved more than anything else. But some of you people put me on alert and favorites lists and didn't review, what's up with that. Please leave me some feedback. I so greatly appreciate it, especially the questions and constructive criticism.

Well, until next time.

Hotshot


	3. Chapter 3

First Impressions Aren't Everything

Chapter Three

Hotshot

Collins had taken an interest in following Mark to work at CBGB's on the nights that he shot bands. So here Mark was in the early days of spring, trying to finish editing the tape for the latest band he'd taped. Meanwhile Collins sat on Joe's desk, swinging the one leg he allowed to drop over the edge and chatting idly.

"… So you see Mark, there really is no way to know if there is a higher power. I mean, if he doesn't exist every person on Earth could believe in him and it still wouldn't make him exist."

Mark just grinned to himself. The conversation had come from the band's name, Higher Power, which had started Collins off on a philosophical discussion about God.

Mark's mother would have been scandalized. This was, of course, one of the many reasons Mark liked living with Collins so much.

Mark could listen to Collins for hours. Even if he had nothing to say his deep voice was comforting. Most often Mark listened, but it was days like this where he let his mind wander. If he paid attention to Collins he would never get all of his work done. Besides, Collins' theories and stories tended to twist back upon themselves enough to make Mark's head spin. At least Collins was helping him out, having learned over consecutive visits how to load the film into the club's camera.

"…I mean, a faggot is a bunch of sticks rolled together to make a torch. I know how the term evolved but still, I don't think it makes much sense."

"Whoa, what?" Mark looked up from the film strip in his hands, "Sorry, I think I missed where we moved from talking about a higher power to the evolution of derogatory terms."

Collins sighed, and shook his head. He was laughing.

"What?"

"Wanted to see how many subject changes I could get in before you realized I knew you weren't listening."

Mark blushed, "Sorry."

Collins just shrugged and closed the camera in his hands.

"So Cohen," he asked, "Which end of the sexuality spectrum are you at? Are you straight as a fucking arrow like Benny or a bit crooked like myself?"

Mark hesitated. Home and school hadn't been places to talk about his sexuality. Work didn't seem the place either, but it was Collins that was asking him and if anyone would understand it would be Collins.

"I'm kind of right down the middle of that particular decision." He finally said.

Collins raised an eyebrow, "Really?"

"What'd you expect?"

"I wasn't all that sure what to expect actually. Most of the time you've got me convinced you're straight but there are times…"

"I don't know if I should be offended or not."

"So is there a preference?"

"Are you interested?" Mark shot back. Two could play this game of implying things.

"You're not my type. Sorry." And Collins would shoot it right back.

"I don't know. I've dated about an even amount I guess."

"So your last crush was…"

"Male."

"Anyone I know?"

Mark opened his mouth but then realized what was going to spill out. He bit his tongue and stood up, pushing the chair back in.

"No. No you don't." As he looked up again he found Collins giving him a slow, calculating look.

"You want me to help you set up?" he asked finally, dropping the subject.

"Uhh… yeah," Mark stuttered, "Can you grab the tripod from the store room and set it up on the balcony. I'll meet you up there in ten minutes."

"Yeah," Collins headed out the door.

Mark picked up the finished film strip and began loading it into the canister. Roger was an asshole. He treated Mark like shit and in all respects Mark was entitled to hate him. But Mark couldn't. In fact, Mark couldn't bring himself to completely dislike Roger either. He still found the other man attractive and on occasion seeing him still stole Mark's breath away.

"Fuck," Mark brought his fist down with a frustrated blow, ripping open his knuckle against the thin edge of the film canister. He hissed in pain, sucking the bloodied area into his mouth as he began opening drawers, searching for something to wrap around his hand.

Once he located a bandage and wrapped gauze tightly over his knuckles he picked up the camera and started out to the balcony where Collins was waiting for him. People were starting to flood into the building.

"What the hell did you do to yourself?" Collins asked, noting the bandage immediately.

"Sliced myself on the film reel," he explained. "I'm fine. I can worry about it later."

Collins helped him secure the camera to the tripod and then disappeared into the crowds. He knew better than to stay and distract Mark while he was supposed to be working. And tonight, of all nights, Mark was glad for the solitude. Without Collins around he was free to let his mind wander back to a certain green-eyed rocker and the very real problem this had the potential of becoming.

- - -

Collins met someone at the club that night and as happened when Collins did not stay at home Mark got a real bed to sleep in for the night. It had been so long since he'd had an actual mattress to sleep on that, regardless of how lumpy and old Collins' mattress was, he slept until well past noon the next day.

He stumbled into the brightly lit loft to find Roger stretched across the couch, a cup of coffee on the table, and his hands occupied with a pen and paper.

"Any coffee left?" Mark asked. It was a simple enough question. No implications.

"Last cup," Roger muttered distractedly, motioning to his cup on the table.

Of course.

Mark did not dignify the situation with a comment, just set about putting hot water on the burner to make himself some tea instead. He dumped a generous amount of cereal into a chipped bowl and snacked on it as he waited for the water to boil.

He kept glancing back at Roger who, thus far, was paying him absolutely no attention, much more focused on the notebook in front of him than tormenting Mark. Maybe things were going okay for once.

As Mark poured hot water into a mug the phone rang, followed by the obnoxious machine message of three young men, Mark's voice had yet to be added, saying simultaneously, "Speak!"

And then Mark's mother's voice echoed through the otherwise silent loft.

Then again things were never okay for Mark.

"Mark," Mrs. Cohen's nasal voice echoed through the room, the volume only magnified by the size and sheer emptiness which it filled. "Mark, honey, are you screening your calls? Are you there? Mark, pick up the phone. It's Mom. Oh well, just wanted to say that we miss you. I thought you were coming home for break and you never even called. You're still staying with Benjamin, right? Oh Mark, you know I worry. Cindy's bringing the kids up next month. You should come home for a visit. I love you. Call me back."

Mark closed his eyes, dropping his head so that his chin rested on his chest. His mother was certainly gifted, if at nothing else, at making her son sound and feel like he was six years old again.

And he felt oh-so-much better when Roger's laughter rang through the loft.

"Oh, is poor little Marky's mommy worried about him," he laughed. "Christ, what kind of mother still calls her kids like that?"

"Shut up Roger," Mark mumbled.

"Cohen's Jewish, isn't it?" Roger continued, "She's one of those stereotypical Jewish, hen-mothers?"

"Cohen is my father's name. He's Jewish."

"So you're Jewish?"

"Does it matter? What are you some kind of Nazi?"

"Davis is German," Roger replied with a smirk.

Mark sighed, "My mom's Catholic, so I'm half Jewish and it's the wrong half?"

"The wrong half? What the fuck are you talking about?"

He sighed again, "Judaism traces back through the mother's family, so in order for me to be Jewish my mother would have had to be Jewish or have converted but she-"

"Hey," Roger interrupted sharply, "I didn't ask for a fucking history lesson."

He stood up and picked up his mug, walking into the kitchen and dumping the nearly full cup of coffee into the sink. He spoke again as he approached Mark.

"Maybe you should do what she says, Marky. Maybe you should go back to Hicksville-"

"Scarsdale."

"Wherever. Maybe you should go back and stay there." He shouldered his way by Mark and crossed the loft, slamming his bedroom door closed behind him.

Mark stared at the door for a minute. It seemed that every conversation he had managed with Roger ended with that door slamming shut.

He wondered how long it would be before the door came off its hinges.

He needed to call his mother back. Great. If he wanted conversation he had two choices, his overprotective mother or his rage-driven roommate. Almost as though on cue the sound of guitar chords rang from the next room and the answering machine beeped to remind him there were messages to be checked.

"Fuck." He muttered.

"Boy, do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

Collins' voice made him jump. He certainly hadn't heard his friend enter.

"Not lately."

Collins laughed, observing the emptiness of the loft. It went without saying that Benny was at work but Roger's door was closed and the guitar licks were harsher than usual. And then there was Mark, standing dejected in the middle of the room looking a bit lost.

"What's up?" he asked, raising an eyebrow ever so slightly.

Mark sighed, "My mother called."

"Oh." Collins shrugged, "That's not so bad."

Mark looked at Collins for a moment before leaning over and pressing the play button. He watched Collins as his mother's voice filled the loft again. Collins was watching the machine as though Mrs. Cohen were going to climb out of it.

When the message ended and Mark deleted it he finally spoke.

"Well no wonder you're so fucked up."

"Gee, thanks."

"Hey man, at least you've got a reason. What excuse do the rest of us have?"

Not waiting for Mark's reply he dashed across the room, pounding on Roger's door and yelling, "Davis! Get your crazy ass dressed and out here. I got my first paycheck so we need to celebrate!"

He turned back to Mark with a wide grin.

Mark just shook his head and went to sit down on the couch.

"Nuh uh, you too. Go shower and shit. Once Benny gets home we are all getting drunk as hell."

Mark shook his head, "I can't really hold my liquor."

Collins strode over and took a seat on the coffee table, looking Mark right in the eyes.

"Do you think you have a choice? You've only been twenty-one for what, four months? Trust me; before the year is out we'll have your tolerance built up." He smirked and continued, "Now get your scrawny white ass in that shower."

Even at being insulted Mark could not make himself mad at Collins. He grinned at his friend before getting up and heading into the bathroom, praying for three minutes of hot water.

He cursed loudly when the water turned cold halfway through his shower and got out as quickly as he could. Peeling the soaked bandage off his hand he threw it into the trashcan and toweled himself off. Once he was dressed he looked over the cut on his hand. All of his mother's lectures about medical treatment came back to him and he set about finding some antibacterial lotion to put on it, as well as some more bandages.

He found them in the kitchen and washed his hand carefully in the sink. It really didn't look that bad but it was better to be safe than sorry. He managed to wrap the bandage around it but when he tried to tie the two ends together he found doing so with one hand too difficult.

"Hey Collins, come here a minute!" he yelled.

Collins got up off the couch and wandered slowly into the kitchen.

"What?"

"Can you help me- shit!" Mark pulled the bandage too tight and ripped open the cut, blood oozing out once again. He shook his head; the bandage would stop the bleeding.

"Can you just tie this for me?" he asked beginning to wrap the cloth over his knuckles again.

Collins had suddenly gone very somber. The jovial glint behind his eyes had disappeared.

"No." he said simply.

"What? Come on, I can't do it myself."

"Roger!" Collins yelled, 'Rog, get out here!"

"No," Mark tried to shush him. "I don't want his help."

Collins ignored him and by this time Roger had appeared in the doorway, pulling a fresh t-shirt over his head.

"Yeah, what? I'm not ready to go yet."

"Mark needs help tying a bandage around his hand. He cut himself."

Roger sighed, his shoulders slumping.

"Roger." Collins sounded like he was begging.

Roger nodded and crossed the room. Before Mark could form a protest Roger had grabbed his hand and pulled the bandage tight, tying it quickly and snugly around his hand. He turned on his heel and headed back to his room, patting Collins on the shoulder as he passed.

"Collins?" Mark asked. He was beyond confused now.

Collins sighed, turning back to face Mark. He pulled a dilapidated stool up to the table and motioned for Mark to do the same.

Mark sat down, immediately concerned, "What's wrong?"

"Listen, I know it's going to sound like I was keeping this from you but I swear I wasn't doing it intentionally. It's just kind of a strictly need-to-know basis, you know?"

"You're not making any sense."

Collins bit his lip. When he spoke he sounded years older than he was.

"Mark, I'm HIV positive."

Mark was a bit taken aback. In all he knew about the disease it was something caught by drug addicts and gay men, something that was fatal and would kill someone rather quickly.

"Collins…" He couldn't find the words.

"Listen, I know it sounds really bad. I kind of flipped out when I found out myself, but I'm healthy, my T-cell count hasn't dropped too much. I probably could have tied that for you, but you were bleeding and I'd rather be safe than sorry."

"I, uh, I don't really know too much about-"

"I've got some pamphlets and stuff. You can borrow them if you want. When I found out Benny and Roger both read up on it." He cleared his throat, "I'm not dying. You can ask me whatever you want."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Well I didn't know how long you'd be staying in the loft for. If it was just a couple of weeks I wouldn't have bothered. Then I didn't know how you would react. A few people absolutely flipped out when I told them so I was worried."

Mark nodded.

"You're sure you're okay?"

The spark suddenly returned to Collins' eyes. "If I wasn't okay would I be dragging you out to a bar to get drunk with me?"

Despite how worried he had been Mark started to laugh. "No I guess not."

"All right then, stop dwelling on it and think about how wonderfully carefree you are going to be in just a few short hours."

A few short hours later Mark was seated at a bar, watching Collins and Roger down shot after shot after shot. Benny was nursing his second beer trying to deal with his two roommates whom he'd guaranteed Mark would be absolutely gone before they left the bar.

Mark had yet to drink anything. His only real past experience had been a night at a frat party at which he'd ended up kneeling by the toilet for half the night.

The lesson learned: never drink the punch.

"Mark!" Collins' voice was deep and booming as he pushed a shot glass filled with clear liquid in front of Mark.

Mark looked at it for a moment and shook his head.

"I'll just get a beer."

"I am teaching you to drink. The rules of drinking beer are simple enough but I am going to teach you to drink _real _alcohol."

Roger snorted into his current drink before downing it.

"He's just going to get sick later," he pointed out slightly slurring his words.

After the six shots he'd taken Mark wasn't surprised but he narrowed his eyes at the rocker before turning to Collins.

"What is it?"

"Tequila."

"Christ," he heard Benny mutter from behind him.

Mark picked up the shot glass off the bar and Collins mimicked the action with his own drink.

"Bottoms up," he toasted before downing the drink.

Mark looked at his drink warily before copying Collins' actions.

Fuck it burned. The liquid just burned all the way down and he felt like he was choking. He coughed heavily a hand going to his chest and throat as he tried to suck in air and it took him a moment to get over the feeling that he wanted to throw up. Roger was laughing at him, not surprised at all as he signaled the bartender for a beer. Collins was roaring with laughter, slapping his knees and swiveling on his stool. Even Benny was chuckling at his expense.

"My God," he managed to gasp out, earning another round of laughter.

Collins placed another shot on the counter between himself and Mark who looked quickly between the drink and his friend.

"Are you kidding?"

A wide grin showed off dazzling white teeth and he pushed the drink across the counter at Mark.

"Alright." He downed the drink with less apprehension, knowing what to expect this time. It still burned but he caught himself this time managing to choke down the coughing.

"Another?" Collins asked.

Mark nodded.

"Ronnie!" Collins yelled down the bar, "Another round."

The bartender signaled back that he would be there in a minute.

"Hey man."

Everyone turned back to Roger who now had a tiny brunette standing between his legs fingering the choker around his neck while her other hand wandered under his jacket.

"Congratulations on the job man. Really." He said to Collins, "But I will see you back at the loft."

The girl was starting to kiss his neck and he turned his head to whisper something in her ear. She laughed that bubbly little laugh that Roger caused girls to dissolve into.

"In the morning." He continued.

Collins shook his head, a knowing grin on his face.

"I got the tab, get your ass out of here," Collins waved him off before turning back to Mark and Benny.

Benny sighed. "I think I'm going to stay with Alison tonight."

"Stay and have a few more drinks with us first," Collins ordered, "now, back to getting Mark drunk."

Timing could not have been better. The bartender slammed down three shots in front of them. Even Benny picked up a shot glass, abandoning his beer. They all lifted their glasses.

"To getting some," Benny said in monotone as they watched Roger walk out the door with the brunette.

Mark and Collins repeated his sentiments with a bit more vigor and downed their shot. Each one got easier for Mark.

Three drinks and forty-five minute later Mark was stumbling back in the direction of the loft with Collins, both of them yelling and slurring to a certain degree. The stairs to the loft were a bit of a challenge for Mark but every time he started to stumble Collins was there laughing and helping him back up.

"So, how d'you feel?" Collins asked him as he pushed open the door to the loft. "You going to get sick?"

"I don't think so. I'm not sure." Mark shook his head.

"Crash in Benny's room. Make sure you find the trash can so you don't puke on his sheets if you do get sick."

"Thanks for the vow of confidence," Mark grumbled good-naturedly.

He stumbled into Benny's room and slammed the door shut, Collins' laughter echoing behind him. He peeled the sweater over his head, dropping it to the floor, and kicked off his dilapidated sneakers before dropping into Benny's bed. All he needed was a solid twelve or so hours of sleep. The alcohol was getting to him now. He could hear Collins moving around but even bombs dropping could not have kept him awake at this point.

- - -

Mark awoke to the sound of that damned guitar. The shades in Benny's room were open and the notes were high. The lights and sound did not make a good combination and Mark pulled a pillow to cover his face. There wasn't even anything he could do to stop it. If he went out and yelled for Roger to be quiet he would only play louder.

Luckily he wasn't the only one who wanted to sleep in.

"Boy, you had better have a damned good reason for playing that guitar when people are still sleeping." Collins boomed.

Mark didn't hear the rest of their conversation. Despite his headache he chuckled, pressing his face into the mattress. He heard doors slamming and it quickly turned into a groan.

Benny's door squeaked open moments later and Mark couldn't bring himself to move.

"Mark?"

"Yeah." He rolled over and struggled through trying to sit up.

Collins held up a glass, "Headache?"

"Uh huh."

He handed over two aspirin and the glass of water. Mark downed them and fumbled for his glasses where they laid on a small table.

"So how'd you get rid of Roger?"

"Reminded him that he had practice, to which he threw back we should all be up by three pm."

"It's three o'clock?"

"Well past. You working Friday night?"

"Uhh…" Mark tried to grasp his schedule. "What day is today?"

"Sunday."

Mark did the math, mentally going through his schedule."

"No, the house band is playing. Why?"

"Roger's playing Club Voodoo again. It was his dream place for about three years and he asked me to show up and see him play."

"I doubt he wants _me_ to come."

"Are you kidding me, Roger lives for attention. Frickin' Maureen Johnson could show up and he'd be happy?"

"Who?"

Collins grinned, "This girl Roger saw for a few months last year. She drives him absolutely crazy. She's the only person on the face of this planet who is a bigger attention hog than our dear Mr. Davis."

Mark laughed, "Is that even possible?"

Collins' eyebrows shot up, "Wait until you meet her."

"Okay," now he was kind of wary in regards to the whole thing.

"So you'll go?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Ha!" Collins jumped up and headed for the door yelling back, "Mark Cohen, we shall make a bohemian out of you yet."

"I thought I was bohemian?"

Collins grinned back at him from the doorway, "You do not have nearly enough alcohol permanently flowing through your system."

With that he disappeared and Mark flopped back onto the bed. His head was still throbbing a little and he was exhausted. It was tempting to go to bed but he realized very quickly that he needed to be at CBGB's before five.

Oh, filming was not going to be fun tonight.

A/N: I think I did much better with this chapter in terms of time. However, I don't really like this character all that much. Sure, the scenes are necessary to establish some facts about certain characters but I feel like my characterization of Collins was a bit off and I just don't like it all that much. Oh well, the next chapter is certainly going to be much more exciting. April will appear soon, as, obviously, will Maureen. I'm in the middle of midterms and nano starts up in about a week and a half so I make no promises but I will work on getting the next chapter out. Again, if anyone wants to beta… well, just get ahold of me. Leave some love via the little purple button

Hotshot


	4. Chapter 4

First Impressions Aren't Everything

Chapter Four

Hotshot

The club scene really wasn't the place for Mark. That fact became abundantly clear to him as soon as he stepped into Club Voodoo. Without a camera in his hands Mark felt useless and uncomfortable. His hands twitched slightly as the urge to leave hit him.

Collins' hand was solid on his back as they walked through the crowded building. The air seemed to vibrate with the sound coming out of the speakers, another band playing. He barely heard Collins as the older man yelled to him.

"What?"

"The bar," Collins shouted to be heard, "Go to the bar!"

And so the two made their way over to the bar and Collins called out for two beers. There was no room to sit so the two of them just stood there as they drank. Mark took a slow sip of his beer as he looked around.

"You okay?" Collins caught his eye.

"What time do they go on?"

Collins shrugged, "About twenty minutes."

He watched Mark as the filmmaker twitched again and chuckled to himself. He knew Mark was uncomfortable but corrupting this poor innocent youth was going far too well. Mark took another sip of his beer and looked around nervously.

"Mark, no one's going to bite, I promise."

As if to prove his point a loud voice suddenly interrupted both of them shouting "Thomas Collins!"

Collins and Mark both turned around as a young man pushed his way through the last of the crowd. He was one of Collins' recent flings, a young student from the university. He threw his arms around Collins with even more of a greeting.

"Steve, how are you?" Collins laughed. He returned the young man's hug as a few seats opened up.

"I'm great. Haven't seen you in ages."

"Yeah, I've been busy," Collins said, a huge grin plastered across his face. "Steve, I'd like you to meet my new roommate, Mark." He motioned to the now sitting filmmaker.

Steve turned and raised an eyebrow as he looked Mark up and down.

"Well hello there."

Mark offered polite smile and quiet greeting.

Steve leaned in toward Mark a bit more, placing a hand on Mark's thigh. "Well aren't you a cutie."

Collins roared with laughter as Mark turned bright red and stuttered nervously.

"Steve, I don't think he's your type," Collins laughed, "Leave the poor boy alone."

"Oh, you're no fun. That other roommate of yours here tonight; the one with the band?"

Collins nodded, "They're going on at eleven."

Steve's eyes went wide, "Here! And to think I was planning to go elsewhere. I'm going to have to stick around to see that fine piece of ass now."

Mark blush furiously, turning away and taking a few large gulps of his beer. It frightened him to think that he and Steve had the same taste in men. But then, he had to assume everyone saw Roger and had the same reaction.

He focused on his beer and let his eyes wander as Collins and the young student conversed. The whole place was making him uneasy.

"You're awfully quiet tonight," Collins commented as his former student walked off.

Mark shrugged, "I don't know why I agreed to come tonight. I hate places like this."

"Mark, you work in one."

"Yeah, but then I have my camera and I don't have to pay any attention to the people standing around me. I'm not… I'm not good with handling people I don't know, and I don't like confrontation all that much."

"I've noticed," Collins referenced Mark's way of behavior in general, and especially his way of avoiding an actual physical fight with Roger. "So how do you plan on getting a date?"

Mark rolled his eyes, "I'm not really looking right now."

"Oh come on, when was the last time you got laid, huh?" Collins looked around quickly, glancing up and down the bar. "See that pretty little redhead down at the corner of the bar, go talk to her."

"What? Collins, no."

"Yes Mark, I've seen her at a few of Roger's gigs before. Just go over and talk to her about the band. I'm sure she'll be interested in talking to you."

"Look, they're coming onstage," Mark tactfully changed the topic as the Well Hungarian's took the stage amid much applause.

Collins sighed, turning on his stool to watch Roger approach the mic with a wicked grin across his face. Personally Collins thought Roger looked like a punk in that tight t-shirt with the sleeves all cut off, but when all of the girls in the club started screaming he figured Roger knew something about how he should look.

If Roger's taste in clothes was wrong there were certainly two things he could do right, playing that guitar and singing. Even when Collins closed his eyes and took a long sip of his drink he had to admit the sound of the band was captivating.

He glanced up at the stage to catch the stage antics of Roger and his friends. As usual Roger was right up on the mic. Instead of looking around the room and paying equal attention to the entire audience Roger's gaze was directed toward the bar. He looked down to correct a chord he'd played wrong, lifting his eyes to glance at someone sitting at the bar. Collins turned to look in the same direction. The little red-haired girl he had told Mark to hit on was staring back at Roger with complete and utter infatuation.

Oh damn, Collins thought. The last time Roger had taken such interest in someone… well, Collins couldn't actually remember the last time Roger had stared down a girl he liked.

He turned to Mark, to see if the blonde had noticed the same and found him staring at the stage, almost in a daze. Several things clicked in his mind at the same time when he saw the way Mark was staring.

"Oh." he said out loud.

That knocked Mark out of his stupor, "Huh?"

"Nothing, forget it." Mark hadn't wanted to talk about it that day at CBGBs so he wasn't about to make him talk about it here.

Collins turned back to the bar. He definitely needed another drink to think this through.

When the show was over much of the crowd headed out but Collins made Mark stick around to congratulate Roger on a gig well played.

Mark sighed heavily, "He doesn't care what I have to say about it."

Even with his gut telling him to leave he sat reluctantly on the barstool until Roger burst through the crowd to embrace Collins.

"Hell, we were so on tonight. That show was absolutely perfect. Mike and I were so together and…" The grin on his face looked wide enough to crack, "This is what it should always be like."

Collins laughed, "Good show man."

Roger caught sight of Mark behind Collins and raised an eyebrow, "What are you doing here?"

"Really good show," he commented quietly.

Roger sneered, "I think you've made your opinion of the band quite clear. Don't bother trying to change that now."

"Be nice," Collins gave Roger a small push back.

"Yeah, whatever," Roger rolled his eyes. "Anyway, I'm gonna hang around for a bit longer, get a few drinks and come down from this high. You guys go ahead and head back to the loft. I'll be back later."

Collins looked at Roger and then at the redhead who was still sitting at the end of the bar. While Mark completely missed the action Roger did not. He smirked and shrugged, pulling on his leather jacket.

"You're trouble."

"Don't I know it," Roger replied before walking off.

Mark watched Roger walk down and take the barstool next to the girl without saying a single word to her. Within seconds the two were talking and she was looking at him with _that_ look. Mark had to hand it to Roger; he knew how to get at people. He could walk right up to anyone and talk to them. Mark wished he had that kind of personality.

"Come on you," Collins grabbed Mark by the sleeve of his shirt.

Once they were outside Mark relaxed. He stretched out his shoulders and pulled on his coat. The walk back from Voodoo was a bit farther than any of Roger's usual gigs but the weather was getting better.

"So what makes you think I would have the same taste in women as Roger?" Mark asked as they began to ascend the stairs.

"Mark, I'm gay. I could also be blind and dumb and still know that girl was hot." He turned to Mark, "Are you telling me that you didn't find her attractive at all?"

Of course Mark had thought she was gorgeous but he wasn't about to tell Collins that. Instead he muttered, "Not really."

"Liar," Collins accused as he slid open the door. "Benny, you home!?" He made a pact with himself. If Benny wasn't home he would bring up the Roger thing.

There was scrambling in Benny's bedroom and the door opened. Benny appeared shirtless. "Keep it down," he hissed.

"Benjamin, do you have a girl in there?" Collins asked, shit-eating grin spreading across his face.

"Yes." Benny replied, "So I hope it's not too much to ask that you three keep it down and leave me alone- where's Roger?"

"Still at the club," Collins tried to take a few steps forward to see past Benny.

"I like this girl so fuck off, just for tonight."

Collins sighed. Ruin his fun.

"Fine."

Benny's door closed and Collins turned back towards Mark, emphasizing a frown. Mark just shook his head. As they heard girlish giggles come from the room both men tried to hold back their laughter. Collins motioned that he was going to bed and disappeared into his own room, holding back chuckles.

Mark sighed, flopping down onto the couch. He had grown accustomed to getting Benny's room because usually he stayed with this girl of his. Now they were here and it was back to the couch.

It was still dark when he woke up. He had no idea why he was awake but sat up and pushed the blanket off of himself, stumbling to the bathroom. What the hell had woken him up?

As he stumbled back to the couch he heard noise, figured it out.

"Oh Roger," he heard a girl's voice and froze halfway between the bathroom and the couch.

"Shh…" Roger hushed her and Mark could hear whispers followed by a delighted groan.

The noises that followed made Mark blush. Of course he was not purposefully listening to his roommate have sex. He made his way back to the couch and pulled the blanket back over his shoulders, hoping the distance and cover would block out the sounds. It didn't. He closed his eyes and took a few long, deep breaths. This night was going to be miserable.

"Good morning!"

Mark jumped, blinking rapidly and rubbing at his eyes as he floundered for his glasses. He was certainly not used to hearing a perky, female voice in the loft. Finally his fingers closed around the cold plastic frames that had fallen off of the coffee table sometime in the night.

As he slid them onto his face the redhead from Voodoo came into sharp focus. She was sitting on the arm of the couch dressed in one of Roger's shirts and little else. The smile on her face was friendly and dangerous at the same him, and her eyes were laughing.

"Uh, hi."

"Sorry if I startled you," she apologized.

Mark shrugged, uncertain of what to say to her. Where the hell was Roger?

"Coffee?" she asked. "I think it's about ready and you look like you could use some."

Mark pushed himself up into more of a sitting position on the couch, "Yeah, yeah coffee'd be great."

"Okay," she got up and practically bounced into the kitchen.

Mark quickly pulled on his pants. Sleeping in his boxers was one thing but he wasn't a fan of walking around the loft in them when there were guests. He looked around the loft, already brightly lit by the sun, for any sign of Roger, Collins or Benny. The shower was running. Damn.

She returned to the couch and handed Mark one of the large mugs. He immediately took a sip of the scalding liquid. It was much better than the coffee he or the other boys managed. None of them was really good at guessing the amount of coffee beans needed and the machine was temperamental. Mark liked this girl. She was gorgeous, she was nice, and she made amazing coffee. Alright, maybe it wasn't true love, but it was early and he had yet to get up and move around the loft.

He released a long sigh, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." She smiled at him again. "So how long have you been living with Roger?"

"Umm…" It was March so that was… "About three months, maybe closer to four."

"He's a really cool guy." She said, "And you're not so bad yourself. I expect your even cooler when you're more than half awake. I'm-"

"April, babe, leave him alone." Roger came out of the bathroom with only a pair of boxers on. He leaned down and kissed her just long enough to make Mark uncomfortable. When he stood up again he headed for the coffee pot, probably enticed by the wonderful smell.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your roommate?" April asked.

Roger looked back at her, glancing only so quickly at Mark, "No."

April looked after him incredulously before turning to Mark.

"I'm Mark," he said.

"Nice to meet you Mark," she said, sliding off of the arm rest and onto the couch beside him. She was still looking across the room at Roger.

"Is he always that moody in the morning?"

Mark shook his head. "No, we just don't really get along."

"You don't? But you're adorable. Why the hell wouldn't he like you?"

"Because he thinks the band is crap." Roger's voice echoed from the kitchen.

April gaped at Mark, obviously believing him. Mark had seen her the night before. She had been just as enthralled in the band's performance as he was every time he watched them.

Mark shook his head muttering quietly, "I don't think that. He just… It's complicated. Let's just say we tolerate one another."

She giggled as Roger came back into the room.

"April, leave Mark alone," He said walking over to the back of the couch and leaning on it with one hand. "You want a shower?"

April looked up at him with admiration. His eyes held the same feeling.

"No, I think I'll just go back to my place and take one."

Roger was about to reply when another door opened and Collins strode out of his room, bare as the day he was born. Mark immediately averted his eyes, Roger shouted, "Thomas!" and April just roared with laughter.

Collins finally focused on the three of them and did not seem to notice or care about his lack of clothing.

"April this is Collins," Roger introduced, trying to hold back his own chuckles, "Col, this is April."

"Morning," Collins greeted pleasantly as he stumbled to the bathroom.

April and Roger disappeared back into his room and as soon as Collins returned to his room Mark managed a quick shower. As he was exiting the bathroom April was kissing Roger on the cheek and heading out the door.

"What are you looking at?" Roger snapped as he noticed Mark staring.

"You introduced her," Collins interjected before Mark could reply, "Does that mean we're going to be seeing more of her."

Roger nodded. "Yeah. I think so. I'm going to her place tonight and we're going to attempt to make some food." He rounded on Mark, "And don't you dare think about crashing in my room."

"Wouldn't want to," Mark mumbled. He was getting sick of the uppity attitude.

"Excuse me?"

"Forget it."

Roger spent the entire day composing what was to be the first of many love songs contributed to April. He disappeared shortly before dark without a word to anyone. Benny and his mystery girl had disappeared long before anyone else had woken and Benny returned to the loft alone after work. When Collins commented that Roger had found himself a possible girlfriend he scoffed.

"Yeah, what does she look like this week?"

"I think he might actually like her."

"Roger likes anything that can walk. She'll be gone in a week, two tops."

"I don't think so," Mark said. The way April looked at Roger was the way _he_ looked at Roger. The only difference was that Roger looked back at her the same way.

Benny looked at Mark as though he had appeared out of nowhere. The two of them had not spoken to each other for nearly a week. Mark had been attached to Benny when he had entered the loft; that had been his only connection to this world. His departure from Benny had been quick and it was only now that he noticed it. He realized at once how Benny stuck out in this world more than he did.

Benny's words cemented the feeling, "Your mother called me at work today Mark. Would you please call her? She's worried about you."

"Yeah, I'll call her tomorrow," Mark relented. If anything Benny was always going to be the rational voice in his head.

"Good," Benny said, cracking open a beer and joining them on the couch. "So how was Roger's gig last night?"

"I don't know." Collins turned to Benny, "How was the sex?"

Benny smiled. The look said it all but he went on anyway, "Damned good."

"So was the concert." Collins allowed.

"I'll have to get there next time."

"Roger would like that," Collins said.

"Yeah, another person to stroke his ego, just what he needs," Mark commented dryly.

"Is he still being a prick to you?" Benny asked, taking a sip from his drink.

"Do you even live here anymore?" Mark countered, "Of course he is."

"I wonder if that'll change now that he's got a girlfriend," Collins mused.

"I told you, it won't last to the end of the month," Benny confirmed.

Benny finally shut up two months later. April and Roger saw each other practically every day. They spent so much time together that the boys in the loft rarely heard the chords of Roger's guitar.

The school for which Collins was teaching kept him on for the summer session, and CBGB's was even busier than it had been all winter so Mark spent what felt like every hour of his days cutting and editing film. The Well Hungarian's only grew in popularity. If Mark wasn't at work filming he was usually at one of Roger's gigs with Collins, April or Benny.

April adored Mark, which of course, annoyed the hell out of Roger. It wasn't any romantic kind of adoration; she just treated him like they had been friends forever, even like they were siblings. It drove Roger mad that the two of them got along so well and she was always keen to stop by CBGB's to peer over Mark's shoulder as he edited film.

For what it was worth Mark thought April was cool as well. She took more interest in his work than anyone else in the loft and with her around there was always something to film.

There was something about her though, her moods changed from amazing highs to drastic lows. He never knew what to expect.

That was what Mark was musing as it grew later into the night. The loft was empty and he was tinkering away at an old typewriter, working on a manuscript. April had come back with Roger the night before amazingly happy. She'd jumped all over Mark when she walked in the door, and yelled at both Benny and Collins loud enough that he was sure the neighbors would complain. Then she and Roger disappeared into his bedroom for amazingly loud sex.

However, the next morning April had emerged while Mark was making coffee. Even in the warm loft April was shivering, twitching. She looked uncomfortable and barely said a word to him.

"You okay April?" he'd asked.

"I'm fine," she'd replied shortly, running her hands over her arms as though she were cold.

She had whispered to Roger as soon as he left his room, and very quickly the two of them had slipped out of the loft. They'd been gone all day.

Mark had expected Roger was going to spend the night at April's but he came stumbling through the door just shy of two a.m. Collins and Benny were both out with their respective other halves, and Mark was alone in the loft with someone who hated him. It wasn't that he thought Roger would come after him without provocation. It was just that Roger was bigger than Mark, and Mark had trouble keeping his mouth shut.

"Mark!" Roger shouted, "Where the hell is Collins?"

Mark shrugged.

"Hey! I'm talking to you." Roger crossed the room in a few short strides and grabbed Mark roughly by the shoulder, nearly knocking the typewriter from his lap.

Mark took Roger in. He was tense and jittery, shaking just slightly. Mark looked up and met his eyes. They weren't as clear as they should have been, and something behind them was wrong.

"Are you high?" he asked.

Roger released Mark's shoulder with an angry shove and a growl.

"Fuck you," he snapped.

"It was just a question." Mark tossed back, more and more on edge. Roger didn't get like this when he smoked pot. When he smoked with Collins he usually got really mellow and now he just seemed more violent than usual.

"What the hell are you on?" he continued. As far as he knew Roger did not do anything harder than pot. This was frightening.

"I'm fine." He snapped, striding back to the kitchen and digging around for something to drink and punching the wall hard when he found nothing harder than a stale beer.

Mark was worried. He kept his mouth shut and got out of the way, barricading himself in Benny's room to stay away from the frightening thing that was Roger in his current state. He heard things being thrown around the loft haphazardly. That was the Roger he had feared since the first time Roger had advanced on him his first morning in the loft.

He made a note to himself to ask Collins about some of the drugs people currently did in the clubs because that behavior certainly was not normal.

With the door securely locked he relaxed once the noises outside died down. It seemed that Roger had gone to bed. Chances were if Benny was not back yet he would not be back tonight. Rather than risking Roger's wrath if he woke up Mark chose to sleep there.

Roger was long gone when he woke the next day. The loft was quiet save for Collins grading papers. All he did was point to the coffee pot.

Mark had never been much of a snoop. In fact, he rather disliked digging into other people's business but Roger's guitar was gone and he was pretty sure he had a gig later in the night.

"Did you see Roger last night?" he asked Collins. "He was acting funny."

"Nope, you were both asleep when I got back. What happened?"

Mark shrugged, "I think he was high. He was yelling and just… really rough."

Collins looked up and sighed, "Was he out with April yesterday?"

Mark nodded.

Collins sighed again and rose from his seat, dropping the remaining papers onto the table. He walked right into Roger's room with no reservations. Mark did not follow him. He had only been in Roger's room on one or two occasions and felt it best to stay out of the room unless necessary.

"Collins?" he asked.

"Just a minute."

Mark looked through the door to find Collins looking through the set of drawers next to Roger's bed.

"Fuck," he muttered, rising from the floor. He held up an empty plastic bag and a syringe.

"What the hell is that?" Mark asked, coming into the room.

"This had heroin in it," Collins held up the bag. "Fuck, I thought I saw April buying from some guy but she said it was just some weed. Damn, we're in trouble if Roger gets into this."

"What are we going to do?" Mark was not keen on dealing with an angry roommate whenever he decided to shoot up. Now that he knew the name of the drug memories came rushing back from his mother's lectures about why her children should not do drugs.

"I don't know," Collins said, "I'll try to talk to him, make sure he's being safe."

Collins replaced the needle and bag on the tabletop and retreated to his papers. There was nothing he could do until Roger came home. Mark stood in the doorway to Roger's room. He was worried.


End file.
